Hidden Gems

by Carrie Alexander

Panting heavily, he lowered them both to the bed. She clawed at the sheets, still shaking beneath him. Her skin was damp with sweat, the heat at the center of her rising under his palms as he separated their bodies. She rolled, facing away from him.

  The pajamas were a snarl around her ankles, effectively shackling her, but she didn’t kick free. He laid back and admired her sweet heart-shaped ass, rosy from their thrashing consummation.

  After a while, when their breathing had slowed, he traced a line along her hip. “You have a great body.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re really good in bed.”

  “You, too.”

  Damn, he couldn’t stop touching her. “See how nonchalant I can be?”

  “That’s enough, Jamie.” She threw an elbow. “I get it.”

  He yanked his hand away. “All right. I concede. I shouldn’t have rushed the dreaded L word.”

  “No,” she said, and his heart dropped, until she turned over and propped herself up to look at him. Her face was infused—confused—with emotion. She was struggling with her response, and he wished he really could be the white knight who’d resolve all her questions.

  “You said what you needed to.” She bit her lip. “I respect that.”

  He draped one arm around her. “I wanted you to know. Let’s leave it at that.” For the time being.

  “Good grief, will you stop being so understanding!” She darted at him with her teeth bared. For a second he thought she was going to bite off his nose to spite herself, but she landed an openmouthed kiss on him instead. “You should want to wale on me.”

  He gave her a quirky smile. “Well, yeah. I already did that.”

  Her cheeks colored. She went sloe-eyed. “Mmm, yes. So you did.”

  He stroked her arm. “Are you sleepy?”

  “No.”

  “So we can talk.”

  She made a face. “By now, you should know that I’m not a sweet nothings kind of girl.”

  “Tell me what kind you are, then.”

  “You know me as well as anyone.”

  “Not you as a young girl. I bet you were a cute little thing.”

  “Gack, no. I was skinny and scabby. Always fighting with my brothers and getting into scrapes.”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. But I still think you were a cute little thing. Remember, your mother showed me photos when they came to visit.”

  “And how mortifying was that?”

  “I had a very good time.” He’d taken her parents out to dinner and a show. Parents always loved him, sometimes more than their daughters. That hadn’t pained him all that much till now.

  “Sure you did,” Marissa said. “My mom loved you because you’re genuine and funny and my dad was almost giddy with relief because I had a man who’d protect me without having sex with me.”

  “Ha, guess I blew that.”

  “What Papi doesn’t know…”

  Jamie frowned. “But I want him to know. I want everyone to know.” He wanted to literally shout it from the rooftops. He loved Marissa and she—

  Was still thinking of him as a temporary port in the storm.

  “Don’t go there,” she mumbled, leaning her cheek on his chest.

  “Then tell me about the first time you had sex.” He wanted to say fell in love. Bad idea.

  She was silent. On the big round cushion, Sally whimpered and paddled her feet. “Chasing Frisbees,” Jamie said.

  Marissa’s head cocked. “Do you know what a quinceanera is?”

  “Something to do with fruit and sex?”

  “Good guess.” She twined their arms, locked their fingers. “But wrong, except in my case, perhaps. A quince party is a Cuban tradition, a debut of sorts on a girl’s fifteenth birthday. The entry to womanhood.” She kissed his knuckles. “I, unfortunately, took the meaning literally.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Ditched the party early. We had it in our backyard, folding tables among the rose bushes and vegetable garden. There were strings of paper lanterns. Huge trays of black beans and rice, papas rellanas and pastelitos. Music by somebody’s cousin’s mariachi band. Cackling relatives and “uncles” who patted my ass when they weren’t cheating at dominoes. I swiped a bottle of rum and ran off with the neighbor boy who was visiting from his first semester at Florida State.”

  “You have a thing for neighbor boys, huh?”

  “Hmm, yes. This one was just old enough to seem cool and adult to a girl who couldn’t wait to shake the dust of the barrio off her heels.”

  Behind his closed lids, Jamie saw her dancing, twirling, lifting her party skirt to flash long bare legs.

  “We went to the beach to skinny-dip. Afterward, I jumped Jose in the sand, behind some rocks. I just wanted to do it—get it over with. But he must have learned his technique at drunken frat parties because the sex was bad. Really bad.”

  Now he saw her hugging herself on a rock-strewn beach, trying to look blasé about her disillusionment. “Damn,” he said, reaching over to stroke her back. “Teenage boys don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “No big deal.” She caught his hand and tucked it beneath her chin. “What about you? How was your first time?”

  “Uh…”

  “You probably studied up before you did it. Learned all the positions, memorized diagrams of female anatomy—”

  He laughed. “No diagrams. I wasn’t that big a dork.”

  “So how old were you?”

  “This is embarrassing. Nineteen. My first real girlfriend, freshman year of college. We were both virgins, so if we did it badly we didn’t know the difference.”

  “Really? I thought kids in suburbs do it like bunnies, breaking out the booze and weed, having wild orgies while their parents are at work.”

  “I was too shy. And clean. After my dad died, Mom was on her own and she took the job of raising us very seriously. She went to a drug prevention class and was vigilant about keeping an eye out for signs of bad behavior. She even checked the levels in the bottles of cough syrup and tubes of model-toy glue.”

  “My dad was worse.”

  “You were lucky to have him.”

  “I know. Lucky and cursed. But I shouldn’t complain.” She sighed. “Do you still miss your father?”

  “It’s been a long time. The memories have faded. It’s not missing him as much as it is now and then running up against the realization that there’ll always be a hole in my life.”

  In the Wilson family, Jamie was the youngest son, thirteen when his father had succumbed to cancer. With his older siblings at after-school jobs or extracurricular activities, he’d been charged with babysitting his sister, Amy, who was four years younger. They were still close. He’d taken Marissa to Amy’s wedding only last year. He hadn’t minded that everyone had presumed Marissa was his girlfriend. Since then, every time he talked to his mother, she asked after Marissa, hoping for an announcement even though he’d ’fessed up that they were only friends.

  Only friends. He hated that phrase.

  “You’ll be a great dad,” Marrisa said, with a catch in her voice.

  “Yeah, I’m going to make some woman very happy.”

  He stopped and waited to see what she’d say about that.

  She cleared her throat with a short cough. “Some woman, hm?”

  He gave her a one-armed hug. “You’re some kind of woman, Marissa Suarez.” He kissed her hair. “You smell like strawberries,” he said. “And sesame noodles.” They’d ordered in.

  “It’s my new scent. Eau de takeout.” She snuffled against his neck. “You smell like sex.”

  “Yeah, I’m a rutting beast.”

  “Pah. You’re a sweetheart and I want you to know that I do love you.” Her face was scrunched by the effort of grappling with her words. “I—I just don’t know if I can promise to love love you. It’s too—” she swallowed “—too soon for that.”

  “When will it be not too soon?”

  “That’s impossible to sa
y.”

  “Okay. We’ll let it ride.”

  She shook her head. “That’s horrible for you. Sorry.” Her head continued wagging back and forth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “Don’t feel too bad for me. I’ll take my compensations in the meantime.”

  “I do have to go to work.”

  “Damn, so no keeping you barefoot and naked?”

  She called up a slightly melancholy smile. “Meet you here for a lunchtime quickie.”

  Jamie’s thoughts were going in another direction. “How’s it been at work? Has Paul bothered you?”

  “I reassured him that I had no intention of bringing our personal issues into the office.” Marissa moved restlessly. “But he’s still acting funny. Always watching me. Fortunately, we’re not working together on any of our cases, so I can avoid him quite easily.”

  “Still, you’re concerned.”

  “Well, yes. There’s probably been executive washroom talk. But I’ll get past it.”

  “Sure. You’re a warrior. You can get past anything.”

  Jamie found little comfort for himself in that. Although it was nice having no worries that Marissa would be tempted to forgive Paul, he also had to acknowledge that when a relationship was over for her, it was over.

  She saw black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.

  And once she’d made up her mind about ending a relationship, she never looked back.

  11

  “I HOPE YOU’RE NOT expecting me to schmooze like a lawyer,” Jamie whispered to Marissa as they stood at the top of the steps leading down to Bradley Coffman’s spacious living room. A wall of windows overlooked a spectacular view of the city, sparkling on the clear spring evening like the diamonds at Mrs. Coffman’s throat. The cocktail hour was in full swing. “I can’t understand half of what you people talk about.”

  “Don’t even try to follow the lawyerly gobbledygook,” she advised. “Most of them have no other life to talk about. They’ll be thrilled to hear about your job. The spouses, especially.”

  “Oh, I’m to be shunted off with the other wives?”

  “That’s sexist.” She smirked. “In so many ways.”

  He tugged on the network of spaghetti straps crisscrossed over the almost backless rear view of her little black cocktail number. “Call me a chauvinist, but I can’t wait to unlace you from this dress.”

  She wiggled her shoulders. “Be good.”

  “You like me better when I’m bad.”

  He was teasing. Yet there was also a lot of truth in the statement. She seemed to get especially passionate when other emotions spilled over into the lovemaking. But only allowable emotions. They were stuck at Go. A nice place to linger, but not to build a life on.

  Marissa nudged Jamie. “Talk about bad. There he is.”

  Paul Beckwith looked debonair in one of his sharp suits with a silver tie. Jamie had unearthed his suit from the back of the closet and promised Marissa sexual favors if she’d iron out the wrinkles.

  He made a low sound in his throat, watching Paul circulate like a shark. Licensed to schmooze.

  “Just stay away from him, okay?” Marissa asked. “I can’t have trouble at this party. Not even a raised voice.”

  “Fine. But you stay away, too.”

  “That should be easy. I’ve been avoiding him in the office all week.” She hitched up her shoulders. “Into the fray.”

  Jamie took her hand as they walked down the steps into the party. There were about sixteen guests. Avoiding Paul entirely might not be possible. Too bad. Jamie had to admit he was itching for a confrontation. The past few days had been uneventful. He’d had nothing to take charge of, but nothing had been resolved, either.

  They were approached by one of the partners. “Who’s this?” the older man asked after greeting Marissa, working his bushy brows and mustache into a skeptical furor.

  “Mr. Schnitzer, this is Jamie Wilson. He’s an arts critic for the Village Observer. Jamie, Bill Schnitzer, senior partner.” And serial overbiller, she’d once confided.

  “Arts, hmm?” The man sounded as if he were confronting a plate of squid tentacles. “How does that pay?”

  “In dollars,” Jamie said, then coughed when Marissa stepped on his toe. “Exceedingly badly, sir.”

  “Heh,” Schnitzer said, which was as much of a laugh as he seemed capable of. Marissa looked pleased.

  They moved on. Jamie proceeded to discuss the movie version of Rent with Josephine Schnitzer, was licked up and down by Chelsea Howard’s toy poodle and promised impossible-to-get theater tickets to her husband, who was in the doghouse after forgetting his wife’s twenty-fifth birthday.

  “Here,” Marissa said, handing Jamie a glass of wine and a napkin wrapped around a slice of salmon and sprig of dill on pumpernickel. “You’ve earned it.”

  “I did good.”

  “Getting Frenched by a poodle is above and beyond.” She risked a quick kiss. “You’ve become my most valuable asset.”

  “Behind every great woman is a guy who knows how to suck up.”

  “I take back what I said about you being a sexist. I think maybe you’re my favorite man in the whole wide world.”

  His eyes flickered up and down her. “The feeling’s mutual.”

  She moved closer, running her fingers over his hand in a teasing dance.

  “How soon before we can get out of here?” he whispered.

  “We haven’t had dinner yet.”

  “Any chance of a quickie in a closet?”

  “Only if you want to kill my chances of ever making partner.”

  Heaven forfend. “Then can we play footsie under the table?”

  “I’ll bet Chelsea is switching place cards as we speak. You made a conquest.”

  “She’s married to her grandpa, what do you expect?”

  “Shh. They’re going in to dinner.”

  He squeezed her hand, holding her back from joining the others. “Now’s our chance to slip out.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “No, of course not.” She had no problem committing to her job. Only to him.

  She winked. “But maybe we can leave a little early.”

  “And miss the senior partner’s ethics lecture?” Jamie had spent a few minutes with the somewhat pompous Thomas Howard. While he admired the man for recognizing Marissa’s value, Jamie couldn’t see how she expected to conform to the firm’s rigid expectations forever. She respected authority figures, but would never be a Stepford lawyer, obediently toeing the company line.

  Legs like hers were made for kicking up a fuss.

  ALLARD’S TIME HAD COME. Tonight, the White Star would be his.

  Each day without her had been a torment. Never knowing with absolute certainty that she was safe, always standing guard. At times he’d questioned his objectivity. The money, after all, was supposed to be his motivation. Riches beyond his wildest dreams. The amulet was only a means to that end.

  But it wasn’t the money that called to him.

  It was the White Star. She was in his blood—powerful, seductive, endlessly fascinating.

  His employer had grown increasingly agitated with the wait. “Bring me the amulet,” he’d ordered.

  Allard had recoiled at the man’s assumption of authority. He had agreed to the job, yes, but he worked alone. In darkness and shadow, beholden to no one.

  La Souri Noire, came the whisper. His father’s voice.

  “I will finish it,” Allard vowed. One million euros. A hundred times—a thousand times!—his father’s best haul.

  His confidence surged. Even the common thug who’d botched his own burglary hadn’t prevented Allard’s destiny—only delayed it.

  Although he now had a copy of the keys to Marissa’s apartment, and had her schedule down pat, he’d delayed until she was out for the evening to make his move. The wait was worth the familiarity he felt when using the cover of darkness, relying on no disguise but his skill at slipping in and out unseen.
>
  He stood at Marissa’s door, caressing it with his fingertips as he listened for sounds from within.

  Silence. As planned, he could safely let himself in, assured that the blonde who’d unexpectedly answered his token knock on his first attempt to raid the apartment was long gone.

  There was only the White Star. So close now.

  The copy of the first key worked smoothly, but the second stuck. He jiggled it, keeping a tight hold of his calm. There would be no more mistakes.

  A creak sounded at the other end of the narrow hallway that ran along the stairwell leading upstairs. Allard’s blood froze. Was it a floorboard? The opening of a door?

  He didn’t react, not wanting to appear startled. For all anyone knew, he was invited—a roommate, a brother, a lover, a friend. Acting surreptitiously would only make him stand out.

  But he was no longer as composed. A firm twist got the key unstuck and he felt the bolt slide open. With the quickest of glances over his shoulder, he stepped inside and shut the door with a gentle click.

  He’d been spotted! The nosy old crone next door had stuck her head into the hall.

  Allard breathed deeply, trying to quiet his racing heart. No matter, he told himself. He was safe inside, silent and still in the darkness. He needed only seconds to retrieve the amulet and be on his way.

  His eyes narrowed, tracing the layout of the apartment, meticulously planning his route even though it was blatantly apparent. He clung to the walls, gliding silently in the direction of the bedroom.

  Almost there. He knelt at the foot of the bed and reached underneath for the suitcase.

  Suddenly the damned cat attacked, slashing a paw at him from out of the dark, narrow space below the bed.

  With a curse, Allard withdrew, propelling himself backward across the carpet. Where had the spiteful beast gone?

  He looked for it, searching the corners, the top of the bed. Not a creature stirred. Except the mouse.

  There was no time to hesitate. He put a hand over his head and crawled forward again. He’d grasped the handle of the bag and was pulling it toward himself when the cat let out a vicious yowl and leaped at him from above.

  Needle-sharp claws bit into his face. He roared with pain and fury, flailing at the stiff, arched cat. It screeched and attacked again. Fur crackled with electricity. His skin tore. Desperately he gripped the lean, twisting body in his hands and flung the feline aside.